The Return of Mrs Jones. Jessica Gilmore
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much had she shut out over the last nine years?
And how much could she bear to remember? To feel?
The shocking ache of memory—the whispers of ‘what might have been’. If she hadn’t walked in on Hugo she would still be in London, with Trengarth a million miles away from her thoughts, her ambitions, her dreams.
It was all so familiar. The dimly lit windy street, the harbour wall on one side and the shops on the other—a trendy mixture of surf-hire, arty boutiques and posh grub for the upmarket tourists who sailed or stayed in the village throughout the summer.
As they turned up the steep, hilly road that led to Lawrie’s gran’s house the shops became more prosaic: post office, grocer’s, buckets and spades and souvenirs.
She stole a glance at the man strolling along by her side, walking up the hill with ease. He too was still the same in so many ways, and yet there was something harder, edgier. His very silence was spiky, and she had an urge to break it. To soften the mood.
‘So...’ Was that her voice? So tentative? She coughed nervously and tried again—this time loud, abrasive. More suited to a confrontation than casual conversation. ‘Are you married? Any children?’
He didn’t break stride or look at her. Just gave a quick shake of the head. ‘Nope.’
‘Anyone special?’
‘Not at the moment.’
So there had been. What did you expect? she asked herself fiercely. That he’s been living like a monk for the last nine years? Would you even want that?
She wasn’t entirely sure of her answer.
‘A couple of times I thought maybe that there was potential. But it was never quite enough. I’m an old-fashioned guy.’ He slanted a glance at her, cold, unreadable. ‘Marriage should be for ever. Failing once was bad enough...’
‘We didn’t fail.’ But her words had no conviction. Lawrie tried again. ‘We just wanted different things.’
‘If that’s the way you want to remember it.’
Now this was familiar. The flush of anger, the ache of frustration as they stood on either side of a very deep chasm. No, Lawrie told herself. Don’t say anything. What was the point in dredging up old arguments, conflict that should be dead and buried?
Only she had never been able to resist the opportunity to fight her corner.
‘It’s the way it was.’ Cool, calm. As if it didn’t matter. And of course it didn’t. It was history.
Only it was her history. Theirs.
It was her job, knowing when to argue a point, knowing when to let it lie. There was nothing to gain from rehashing the same old themes and yet she felt compelled to go on.
‘There’s no shame in admitting something isn’t working, in moving on,’ she persisted as they reached the top of the hill and turned down the hedge-lined lane that led to the cottage. The bumpy road ahead was hard to make out, lit just by the brilliant stars and the occasional light marking out driveways and gates. ‘I couldn’t stay here, you wouldn’t move—what else could we do? It all seems to have worked out for you, though. You seem to have done well for yourself.’
‘Surprised?’ The mocking tone was back. ‘You always did underestimate me, Lawrie.’
‘I didn’t! I never underestimated you!’ Her whole body flushed, first with embarrassment, then with indignation. ‘We grew apart, that’s all. I didn’t think...’
‘Didn’t think what?’
How could those smooth, cream-rich tones turn so icy?
‘That I was too naïve, too small-town for your new Oxbridge friends?’
‘Wow—way to rewrite history! You hated Oxford, hated London, disliked my friends, and refused to even consider moving away from Cornwall. It wasn’t all me, Jonas. You wouldn’t compromise on anything.’
He laughed softly. ‘Compromise suggests some kind of give and take, Lawrie. Remind me again what you were willing to give up for me?’
‘That’s unfair.’ She felt tired, defeated. She had just presided over the death of one relationship—did she really have to do the post mortem on this one too?
‘Is it?’
The worst part was how uninterested he sounded. As if they were talking about complete strangers and not their hopeful younger selves.
‘Actually, I should thank you.’
She peered at him through the star-lit darkness. ‘Thank me?’
‘For forcing me to grow up. To prove you, my parents, everyone who thought I was a worthless, surfing bum wrong.’
‘I never thought that,’ she whispered.
An image flashed through her head. A younger, softer Jonas, his wetsuit half peeled off, moulded to muscular thighs. Naked broad shoulders tapering down to a taut, perfectly defined stomach. Water glistening on golden tanned skin. Slicked-back wet hair. Board under one arm, a wicked smile on his mouth, an invitation in his eyes. A sudden yearning for the carefree boy he had been ran through her, making her shiver with longing. How had he turned into this cold, cynical man? Had she done this to him?
He laughed again, the humourless sound jarring her over-wrought nerves.
‘Oh, Lawrie, does any of it matter? It was a long time ago—we were practically children. Getting married in our teens...we must have been crazy—it was always going to end in tears.’
‘I suppose it was.’ Her voice was tentative.
Was it? Once she’d thought they would be together for ever, that they were two halves of one whole. Hearing him reduce their passion to the actions of two irresponsible teenagers nearly undid her. She fought against the lump in her throat, fought for composure, desperate to change the subject, lighten the mood which had turned as dark as night.
‘Here you are.’
He stopped at the gate that led into the small driveway and Lawrie skidded to an abrupt stop—close, but not touching him. She was achingly aware of his proximity, and the knowledge that if she reached out just an infinitesimal amount she would be able to touch him made her shiver with longing, with desire, with fear. She wanted to look away but found herself caught in his moonlit gaze, the blue eyes silvered by the starlight.
‘It wasn’t all bad, though. Being a crazy teen.’
The cream had returned to his voice. His tone was low, almost whispered, and she felt herself swaying towards him.
‘No, of course not. That was the happiest time of my life.’
Damn, she hadn’t meant to admit that—not to him, not to herself. It must be the cocktails talking. But as the words left her mouth she realised their truth.
‘The happiest time,’ she whispered, so low she hoped he hadn’t heard her.
Just one little step—that was all it took. One little step and she was touching him, looking up at him. Her breasts brushed against his chest and just that one small touch set her achingly aware nerves on fire. She felt the jolt of desire shock through her, buzzing through to her fingers, to her toes, pooling deep within her.
Jonas’s head was tilted down. The full focus of his disconcertingly intense eyes on her. Lawrie swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips, her nails cutting into her palms as she curled them into tight fists. The urge to grab him and pull him close was suddenly almost overwhelming.
‘Jonas?’
An entreaty? A question? Lawrie didn’t know what she was asking him, what she was begging him for. All she knew was that it was her birthday. And that she hadn’t felt this alive for a long, long time.
‘Jonas...’